


In The Sun I Feel As One (Married, Buried)

by softer_softest



Category: Maurice (1987)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romantic Fluff, boys showing affection, just lovebirds smelling flowers and dicking around and being gay i guess, maurice 1987, maurice by e.m. forster, ode to clive who is a dickhead but i'm besotted with hugh grant, period era gays (again), romantic period talk, the field scene with some imaginary happenings, uh, which i guess can be quite dramatic but they....... are too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 00:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softer_softest/pseuds/softer_softest
Summary: The sound of the stream has managed to grow louder, as it seems, and one glance at the icy water is enough for Maurice to conclude: there’s no shade of blue that even compares. No matter how clear the sky will ever be, or however glass-like the surface of the most brilliant rivers in the world appear, the most beautiful satin cerulean dresses and ribbons the ladies with which they pride themselves have to offer; the electric force of the blue of Clive’s eyes swathes him like a newborn, it’s always stronger and more profound than any feeling, any vision.or, edwardian boys being all fluffy in the field.





	In The Sun I Feel As One (Married, Buried)

**Author's Note:**

> hi uh this is (again) pretty short but in my defence, these headcanons are actually just descriptive odes to either character so there's only So Much i can write...... believe me my gay ass could go on all day about hugh grant's eyes but it wouldn't be fair to you lot. anyhow i really hope you enjoy this and feedback is Always appreciated <3

It’s moments like this - among numerous others - that Maurice wishes he could paint.

He imagines it would be therapeutic, in a way. Instead of bottling up his emotions until they overflow and he has to let them out, but always when the time is appropriate, he would be able to spill all of his love and adoration on a blank canvas and then be able to say that, indeed, he has finally produced something that has come from the very bottom of his heart - by something as pure as unconditional love. He could work with that. Just like that, he is reminded of the first painting that was ever gifted to him; old grandpa Hall had returned from a trip of sorts and had presented him with _Miss Dolce Far Niente_ \- as he had been told - a proper lady with all her worth. Oh, how he admired her attractive, shiny hair!: a fair, chestnut colour, tied with a silky white ribbon that matched her beautiful - always beautiful - dress. Her frame was illuminated by lovely flowers, some rosy like her cheeks and lips or white like her complexion, and her eyes were concentrated far-away, away from the frame and the smooth silk and pretty ribbons. Maurice stared at it every night before he went to bed, then every morning having woken up; God, how uncanny is the resemblance!

Never would he dare compare a man to a lady, out of respect for people, but he allowed himself the harmless notion for just a moment. He wouldn’t want to upset Clive by pointing out his resemblance to _Dolce,_ at least right this moment, lying spread out and beautiful with such casualty. He looked calm, so calm even that Maurice was unclear on whether the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest meant that he was just rather content or asleep. Anyhow, it was clear enough his beauty was never to be doubted for one second - and at that moment he chooses to open just one eye slackly, presenting Maurice with a familiar and warm blue glow; how lucky he is!

“Maurice?” he says huskily, one arm lazily shielding his darling eyes from the sun. “What are you doing standing?”

And with great confidence, Maurice simply kneels beside him, caresses an open thigh, and says, “Admiring you.”

Clive might snort dismissively, but it’s not enough for the rosy hue of his cheeks not to grasp Maurice’s attention, and he manages to catch the beginning of a bashful smile before he’s being shoved softly. “You wouldn’t know what admiration was if it hit you in your awful face. Truly - _Maurice,_ you make me laugh.”

Even as he’s being half-heartedly insulted, Maurice catches himself daydreaming once again, losing himself in the dream that is Clive’s idyllic presence. He loses himself in the golden sunlight that bathes his skin, the thick brown locks that are lost between a mattress of grass and blossoms.

Blossoms. Maurice had almost forgotten about the daisies - how could he focus on that, when he had his very own rose spread out on the grass for him? - but they’re, of course, still there: they’re illuminating Clive’s frame much like _Dolce’s_ , but the difference is that, now, Maurice could reach out and feel so much more than the hard surface of a canvas; smooth skin, warm from the sun, and bony edges that come with the object of his affection being so lanky, too lanky and too lean to be a lady. The mere thought of that is enough to send tingles down his spine.

“When you are done admiring me, anyhow,” Clive continues, trying to sound irritated and failing miserably, “I’d like to get some rest with you before we have to return to that God-awful place.”

“What gives you the impression that I am not resting?” Maurice offers back. However, he abandons his kneeling position to lie next to his beloved, though his head is resting on his hand, and not on the pillowy grass like Clive’s.

“Not doing important tasks doesn’t equal resting, Hall,” Clive shields his eyes from the sun once again, so that the piercing blue isn’t in Maurice’s line of vision anymore. “You’re very much thinking. Scheming, perhaps. What I meant was more like: sleeping. Or something.”

In his daze, Maurice manages to shake his head. “Not scheming,” he says, eyes travelling down the expanse of Clive’s torso surveyingly, “just looking. It’s not a crime, last time I checked.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, darling,” Clive laughs, the charming wrinkles on his cheeks beckoning Maurice closer. “It is very much a crime. The worst on the calendar. That’s sort of the root of my problems, anyhow.”

“I believe acting on my impulses would be the real travesty,” Maurice retorts, his fingers looking particularly pale and smooth in between the grass he’s buried them in. He pretends it’s Clive’s even smoother hair. “Especially in a public area.”

There’s the faint sound of birds tweeting and the water flowing in the stream nearby, and Clive removes his arm from over his eyes. “You could, though. Hypothetically speaking.”

Maurice slides his eyes up to Clive’s own, in contrast to their previous position on his calves, and is met with the same intense shine of blue. He doesn’t know how to respond for a while, only knows how to soak up Clive’s beauty and dangerous gaze once again.

“It’s not like anyone’s around…” he makes a show of looking around the vacant field, his outstretched neck offering Maurice a view of his tight tendons. The beloved hums, as if he wants to make sure Maurice is on the same page as him, but the truth is: Maurice is too lovestruck to be paying attention to anyone or anything, even the things the object of his affection is saying. His face is relaxed, his mouth is slack, and his heart is beating in an obscene rhythm, throbbing throughout his entire body. Clive scoots closer, “Hall. Yes?”

The sound of the stream has managed to grow louder, as it seems, and one glance at the icy water is enough for Maurice to conclude: there’s no shade of blue that even compares. No matter how clear the sky will ever be, or however glass-like the surface of the most brilliant rivers in the world appear, the most beautiful satin cerulean dresses and ribbons the ladies with which they pride themselves have to offer; the electric force of the blue of Clive’s eyes swathes him like a newborn, it’s always stronger and more profound than any feeling, any vision. 

His inner delirium comes to an end as soon as he feels the heavenly touch on his cheek; Clive’s hand is soft but sure, his mouth parted in concentration. Maurice needs all about a second to place his own hand on the beloved’s stomach - because he’s still lying down: what a vision he is! With his head sunk in the grass and his silky hair unkempt and shiny, he looks so much more elusive than a muse, and Maurice is in wonder every single time the beloved has that effect on him.

“Oh,” he breathes out, unintentionally. “Never pegged you for a cheeky one, Durham.”

“Did you not?” Clive seems stunned - never would Maurice think this beauty would be in awe of him or anything he said, but now it’s the deepest of his heart’s desires. “Well, I’d like to think I’m rather forward, to be honest with you.”

“With some matters more than others,” Maurice provides and lays a single kiss on the beloved’s neck. At that, Clive snorts and lays still, for his companion has taken on laying multiple little pecks on the expanse of his throat, and preparing to do the same on the unbuttoned surface of his chest.

“I see…” he mutters, letting a content breath escape him. His eyes face the sky as Maurice kisses all along the region of his chest, petting the lean stomach gently; Clive lifts his head at last and up comes Maurice’s own, to lay a desired kiss on the plush mouth. And always the blunt one: Maurice likens their plum embrace to the sweetness of milk and honey, the sugar of a syrupy plum in front of the warmth of the fireplace. The luxurious feel of a beauty’s mouth against his own, the texture of his silky hair between his very own fingers that are flexing and grasping like it’s the last thing they’ll ever touch; desperate fingers buried in his own hair, a lovely hand against his chest for leverage. As stimulating as it is for a brain of his regime, Maurice does not ever want to stop: and how splendid would it be if he could get a taste of this emotion every night before he went to bed, every morning having woken?

In his stupor, Maurice mustn’t have noticed he had lost himself completely and surrendered himself in the giving pleasures of Clive’s mouth, and the beloved stops when he fails to sense any movement from his companion. “Is everything alright, Hall?” Clive asks, ever so lovingly.

Maurice opens his eyes leisurely, and the plumpness of his lover’s mouth is enough to catch him off guard for all about a second. His lips soon curve into a bittersweet smile, “Please, don’t call me that, right now.”

“What, your _name?”_

“No, I mean- _Hall,”_ his face scrunches up unintentionally, and Clive titters with laughter charmingly. “Chapman calls me that. You’re so much more important to me than Chapman.”

Clive looks to be amazed. They maintain eye contact until he’s no longer in a daze, “Don’t be silly, Maurice.” But he seems to think about it, and eventually smiles in defeat, “What bothered you about it, then?”

“I’m not bothered,” Maurice retorts, all but purring as Clive repeatedly runs his hand through the loose, wavy locks. “It just ruins the illusion, I think. This is rather… amorous.”

 _“Amorous,”_ Clive repeats, looking like he’s having the time of his life. Maurice shakes his head sheepishly and rids his head of the beloved’s hand, only to trap it between his own. Clive continues, “Wouldn’t hurt if you’d have brought me roses, Mr Hall.”

Maurice pauses for a tender second, but then swiftly reaches out and plucks a single daisy from the ground, with all the confidence in the world. His companion is laughing even before he’s being presented with the flower, and when he is, he smiles shyly and snatches it away from his grasp. Maurice titters, “Mr Hall sounds better.”

“Well, thank you, _Mr Hall,”_ Clive responds. He opts to take a fair sniff of the offered blossom, “Why, good heavens! This must have cost you a fortune! I’m quite flattered…”

“Anything for you, my fair lady,” Maurice says breathily. Clive blinks in imitation of a true lady; eyes reminiscent of crystal waters.

“Oh, how you do spoil me!” Clive throws the daisy back on his face but makes a show of grabbing it back once Maurice tries to pull it off his hair. “Excuse me, this is mine now. I’ll pay you off as soon as I can, though, I promise.”

“It was rather expensive,” Maurice exhales. He reaches out and brushes Clive’s hair away, much to the beloved’s surprise, and then gently pulls the daisy out of his hand and places it, ever so softly, to be propped up on his ear. He smiles in triumph, “It looks like a jewel on you, Durham.”

“Oh, please…” mutters Clive, but his cheeks have turned cherry red, and his upper lip is shiny with sweat. Maurice tentatively wipes it off with his thumb, then helps his lover lie down once again, and peppers another array of kisses anywhere he can find, trying to show him just how much he means to him without having to speak meaningless words.

Deeds speak louder than words, after all, and he feels it to the core of his being once Clive lets him in on a couple of overstimulated exhales.

“Maurice…” he says, voice thick with adoration, brow furrowed as the aforementioned lifts his body up from his companion's stomach and brings their faces closer, mouths close enough that a single pout could result in an awaited kiss. “Tell me: do you know that I adore you?”

“Yes, dear,” Maurice breathes, his hand warm inside Clive’s own. “Just as much as I know that I love you with all I have.”

Clive sighs in satisfaction, his head lolling to the side and eyes observing the miles and miles of grass and vegetation. His other hand digs into Maurice’s hair once again, and with the other one snug into the beloved’s still, he pulls them both into his line of vision: he notices the delicate lines curving into each other, the paler shade of his lover’s skin, the fingers entangled with one another. Finally, Clive speaks: “Mind, body, and soul.”

The softness of his tone causes Maurice to all but melt against the surface of his chest. He puts his head on it, still facing Clive with all the focus in the world, and lays another kiss on his protruding chin. Clive chuckles in pure happiness; Good Lord, pure happiness. Warmth, contentment, and love. Sparkly eyes gazing into his own, a couple more kisses being gifted to him with affection, velvety hair demanding his touch.

For the first time in a while, Maurice is living in the moment and basking in the presence of his very own beloved, an idyllic being with luscious lips and eyes with the depth of a thousand skies. Perhaps, this is true happiness, and Maurice hopes he never has to part from it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for checking this out!


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